


Opulence

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Featuring the fashion choices of my favorite trash prince, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: An abandoned room in the West Wing gives Belle a glimpse into the Beast's life before the curse.





	Opulence

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically obsessed with the movie's prologue so this was a self indulgent opportunity to ramble about Adam's clothes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it!

Belle’s own curiosity makes her restless.

She’s able to quell it by escaping into the castle’s endless library, and it works, if only for a little while. The questions that tug at her mind, that make her fingers twitch as if waiting to reach for something she can’t see, are buried in the pages of books. She loses herself in words that take her to far off lands and carry knowledge that she will tuck away in her memory, but somehow she always ends up lifted out of the pages by one single thought: _I’m in a castle._ _An_ enchanted _castle._

Belle has taken nightly walks around the corridors, down shadowy hallways, and into rooms where the candlelight touches the gold flourishes on the walls, the ceilings. More often than not, she finds herself lost—there are so many hallways, alcoves, untouched rooms full of dust that the sun hasn’t reached in years. She paces the marble floors in the silence of the night, listening to her own footsteps echo. It’s then, in those quiet hours, that she feels the loneliness of the castle surround her. She understands how deeply it has settled here.

It begins to tug at her heart.

She wonders if she lingers for too long, it will consume her, make her a part of this place. Belle doesn’t want to think about that, but her thoughts are just as curious as her feet.

Her father always warned that her inquisitiveness would lead her into danger, if she wasn’t careful.

Tonight, Belle wanders around the ruins of the West Wing. It’s like tempting fate, but she is wary of the rose and keeps away from the rooms she knows he’ll be lurking in. They are on better terms now, more at ease with one another, but she doesn’t want to shatter the fragile peace they’ve made.

Among the crumbling stone pillars and cracked walls, the light from Belle’s candle finds another room. The heavy wooden door is open just enough that she can grasp the edge of it and lean into its surface to push it the rest of the way. She can’t help her sharp intake of breath when her fingers graze jagged marks on the outside of the door. In the dark, she doesn’t see them, but the splintered wood bites into her delicate skin.

Belle jumps back a little, her eyes widening once she takes in the long, erratic marks across the wood. Reaching out, she traces four fingers over them, the candle flame trembling in her other hand. She inhales and exhales through her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow, convincing herself of her own bravery. She pushes the door open, quietly praying that the noisy hinges do not alert him. Though the rose is nowhere in sight, she still feels— _knows_ —that she is treading on ground that’s not meant for her. She knows there are answers within her grasp, because danger is perched close, lying in wait.

Belle’s breath clouds a little in front of her when she enters. She has to step carefully, moving over broken furniture and torn fabric as her candle weaves a path in front of her. She can feel the gritty layer of dust on the floor under her boots; it tickles her nose when every movement, however small, stirs it into the air. Her fingers are freezing. A strong draft blows from the window at the back of the room, disturbing the heavy curtains. Belle tugs them aside and stifles a sneeze in the crook of her elbow when a cloud of soot billows into her face.

Moonlight slips into the room, forcing the pitch blackness into the furthest corners. It’s then the Belle realizes the window has been broken, only a few pointed shards left behind in the frame to sway in the wind. Snowflakes drift into the room and shimmer in the moon’s pale light before they fade.

While the room isn’t as grand as hers in the East Wing, it’s by no means small. There is, however, nothing much left to it—whatever furniture there once was, it’s in shambles all over the floor, with a few exceptions. The walls themselves are beginning to collapse and deteriorate, their debris scattered under Belle’s feet. There are deep gouges in them; angry, violent wounds, left open to fester. She knows what they are and who inflicted them without touching them.

She doesn’t want to touch them. Not again.

Her candle illuminates a writing desk not far from the window. She places it on the surface, where quills and ink bottles sit abandoned among sticks of wax and an elaborately crafted pounce pot. Yellowed pieces of parchment paper cover the desk in chaotic stacks, some still sealed in colorful wax with regal emblems and family crests. Belle picks up a handful, eyes skimming across the ink that has faded with time.

Most of them, she realizes quickly, are correspondence of the romantic persuasion. Graceful letters from men and women in elegant handwriting, doting upon a young prince with endless endearments and grandiose declarations. Several of them are rather explicit—Belle’s cheeks flush when her eyes catch certain words or fragments of recollections.

It’s the first time she sees his name. And for a moment it steals the breath from her lungs, to see it written in the flourish of his extravagant handwriting. It’s so simple a name for all of the opulence that surrounds it.

“Adam.”

She whispers it aloud, listens to it strike the neglected room, wondering how long it’s been since the name has pierced the air. She doesn’t know quite what to feel now that she knows his name. Would he want her to call him that? Would it hurt too much, to be reminded of a life that’s no longer his?

Or would it make him feel more…human?

Belle shivers as a gust of chilly winter wind rustles her skirts. She leaves the forgotten letters, her candle’s light bouncing off the edges of a dressing table. It sits across from a massive armoire carved with floral detailing. Her candle, now beginning to burn low, dripping wax onto the brass holder, finds a canvas leaning against the side of the dressing table. She rests the candle there and crouches down to lift the portrait. It’s unfinished, phantom brush strokes stretching into blank space, the finer details left undone. But it looks like the ones she’s seen before.

The same blue eyes stare back at her from behind shallow claw marks.

Here, his eyes are rimmed with color. Brilliant green, bright as the leaves on a summer’s day, in delicate, swirling designs. The shade of green matches the suit he’s wearing, the silk ribbon that’s tied into a bow on a manicured, powdered wig. Belle can’t discern much about him from what she sees, beyond all of the makeup and the haughty expression that glares down at her.

She can’t find _him_.

Once she has returned the portrait to its place, Belle’s fingertips skirt along dusty bottles on the dressing table that has been claimed by cobwebs. The moonlight reveals weathered labels, in languages that she does and doesn’t know. She takes her time, opening them and lifting them to her nose. She imagines how far some of them must have traveled, what foreign, wondrous lands they’ve come from. Rich, musky scents and lovely, floral aromas. Lavender. Jasmine. Rose water. Bergamot.

Belle moves her candle closer. Some of the containers are filled with pigments, though the brushes have long since disappeared. One has toppled over, spilling bright blue powder across the tabletop. She dips two fingers into a glass jar and scoops a color she can’t quite see into the light, gasping a little when her fingertips shimmer in gold dust. Like stars scattered across a night sky, it enchants her for a moment. She considers brushing it over her eyelids or her cheekbone, just to see…but the thought is quickly banished. Belle smears the gold dust onto the underside of her apron and moves onto the armoire that stands like a sentry in the darkened room.

She hopes, for a second, that it isn’t alive.

After swiping away a layer of cobwebs, a plume of dust greets her the moment she tugs open the doors. Belle steps back to let it settle, narrowing her eyes and waving a hand to help it dissipate. Inside, the clothes are nearly impeccable, preserved as if locked inside a tomb. She’s never seen such fine clothing up close—nothing so beautifully sewn, nothing that probably costs more than she can ever dream to afford, let alone wear. She cannot imagine the wealth that inspires the pristine, artful frock coats and waistcoats that are housed within.

Even his shirts, moth eaten as they are, have been sewn with the finest linen. Ruffles and gorgeous lace sit along the cuffs and edge his cravats. Silver and gold buttons still attempt to sparkle like gems in the dim light, dust collecting in the hills and valleys of the designs emblazoned on them. Belle thumbs the embroidery on a cream colored silk waistcoat, outlining the threads that form vines and rose petals.

All of his coats have such intricate, gorgeous embroidery work—around the cuffs, creeping up the facings near his buttons and wrapping around his collars like frost on a windowpane. There are gold threads that shimmer like the dust on her fingertips; silver that shines like moonlight across a marble floor. The patterns are mesmerizing, befitting someone of status, someone who wants to be noticed, praised.

The silk is cool to the touch, almost freezing. Though there are standard white and charcoal fabrics, Belle is struck by the amount of color she finds. Brocaded silk in sage green, indigo, turquoise, and violet. Yellow, brighter than sunshine. Between them, there are also pastels; soft pinks and lavender suits sewn from silk or expensive linen, the breeches paired with coats.

The extravagance of it all astounds her, though the castle she stands in is proof enough of its master’s expensive tastes.

So much opulence for a man with such a simple name… A common name, a name one might share between friends, lovers, family.

Is _that_ the man she’s seen glimpses of in the library? In the snowy gardens?

A gust of icy wind snuffs Belle’s candle out. Startled, she jumps back from the armoire, closing its doors quietly. With one last glance at the abandoned room, she picks up the candle that’s still leaving a thin ribbon of smoke into the air.

Belle pulls the curtains back, removes all traces of her presence there, and shuts the door on a past that isn’t hers.


End file.
